


Fight or Flight

by saintscully



Series: The Fight or Flight Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Jealous John, M/M, Mutual Pining, Podfic Available, Self-Doubt, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25032004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintscully/pseuds/saintscully
Summary: This is the story of John and Sherlock during Mary’s months away from London.Now available as podfic!
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Fight or Flight Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818781
Comments: 85
Kudos: 98





	1. Prologue: Flight Risk

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The In-Between](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577316) by [blueink3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3). 



> This is my first ever piece of fiction (fan- or other wise) and should be read as such ;)
> 
> I'm not a native English speaker and have never lived in the UK and know very little about day to day life there, let alone about country-specific aspects of child rearing, mental health etc.  
> -
> 
> I'm [therealsaintscully](HTTP://therealsaintscully.tumblr.com) on Tumblr [and saintscully2](https://twitter.com/saintscully2) on Twitter. Come say hi!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Questionable canon comment**: for this story to make sense (and really, for canon to make sense) I need you to ignore Sherlock and Mycroft's conversation about AGRA in TST. The conversation at that point in the series implies that Mycroft-Fucking-Holmes didn't know Mary Watson shot Sherlock and used to be a part of AGRA. Yes, they're implying that during Sherlock's recovery, Christmas at the Holmes home, the plans to negotiate with Magnussen and Sherlock's aborted exile, Mycroft didn't know about Mary's connection to AGRA.  
> He supposedly learns about this stunningly shocking fact from Sherlock in a short and light-hearted discussion during The Six Thatchers, while admitting he knew AGRA quite well back in the day.  
> That makes 0% sense to me, so let's use our imagination and ignore the entire scene. My guess is that Mark Gatiss lost the show bible the day he wrote that scene. If you have a better explanation, Mark Gatiss, feel free to comment. I'm open to discussion.

“We should plant a tracking device in the memory-stick,” John says as he covers Sherlock with a blanket salvaged from the dresser, fussing about this way and that.

Mycroft smiles sourly, humming politely.

They’re back in Baker Street, after spending weeks there during Sherlock’s most crucial period of recovery. Sherlock had just been released earlier that day after his second hospitalization.

“I see all those hours watching those hateful Bond films weren’t a waste after all,” Sherlock says, his voice weak but mischievous. “Great idea, John.”

John smiles, nodding proudly at Sherlock’s encouraging words.

“Yes, wonderful idea, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says with a condescending smile as he pulls a small box from his inner suit pocket. He opens it up to reveal four identical memory sticks. “Whatever would we do without you.”

John frowns and huffs, leaving the room shaking his head. “Gits.”

Mycroft looks at Sherlock, raising a critical eyebrow. Sherlock’s eyes are half-closed; he’s exhausted from the effort of travel and climbing up the stairs to 221B, so no response comes. Mycroft turns his eyes down the hall from Sherlock’s room, watching John making tea, quietly claiming his place back in a home he’d left a lifetime ago.

That Sherlock would allow John back in his life after being shot by his wife is the gravest of failures in Mycroft’s book. If the elder Holmes brother had his way, _Mr._ and _Mrs._ would have silently and efficiently disappeared off of the British Isles a long time ago.

Regrettably, Sherlock has a way of convincing ( _threatening_ ) his older brother when he’s determined, especially in matters relating to John Watson. Additionally, Mycroft is not a monster, and to the best of his rather expansive knowledge, the baby she is carrying is real and is 50% Watson.

Mycroft is willing to acquiesce a bit longer, lest the emotional turmoil slow Sherlock’s recovery. He’s making his own plans for Mary Watson in the meantime.

If John Watson thinks his loving wife will fall for the ruse of a tracking device in a memory-stick, he’s rather hopeless. Better safe than sorry, though, he supposes. Mrs. Watson had recently proven to be unexpected when surprised. After all, Mycroft and Sherlock had learned their lesson from their dealings with Irene Adler; even the most cunning minds - when threatened, caged - can become absent. The memory-stick will be the last thing on her mind if she truly panics, and might prove to be surprisingly useful.

Mary will up and leave abruptly sooner or later. Her kind always does, whether of their own volition or otherwise. Sherlock will heroically chase her in the name of the vow he had foolishly made to keep them safe and - Mycroft chuckles bitterly - happy. He’ll send her back to their beloved John.

Sherlock can't seem to grasp the concept of willingly leaving John Watson behind; he never imagines a day might come where he’ll need to save the Watsons from _themselves_ , from hurting each other. A marriage full of lies and half-truths is hard enough. It's no better when one person is an ex-assassin and the other a deceptively unassuming soldier attached to a consulting detective by the hip.

Judging by the little Mycroft knows about the Watsons, he doubts they’ll survive the mess they’ve been so diligently creating.

“Leave him alone, Mycroft,” Sherlock whispers, practically asleep. “He’s worried enough as it is.”

Mycroft sighs, foregoing a response for the time being. John Watson has every right to be worried. Mycroft certainly is.

* * *

Mycroft’s phone pings one afternoon, during a particularly tense day.

_**“FLIGHT. -SH”** _

_Well_ , he thinks, _that didn’t take long_.

A few seconds later another one arrives: _**“Drugged me. Left a letter. 24/7 surv on J &R. -SH”**_

Another: _**“Do NOT harm her. She’s not dangerous. -SH”**_

**“I’m not sure you understand the meaning of dangerous. MH”**

**“I’ll see what I can do. MH”**

**_“See that you do. -SH”_ **

Mycroft puts his phone down with a sigh. This will not end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a bit of fun trivia. In this chapter, I wrote that John suggests planting a tracker in the memory stick. Only later have I rewatched the episode and realized that John actually prides himself on that in canon (annoying Holmes brothers aside). Here's to happy coincidences :)


	2. Grave Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's face sours and he shakes his head. "Malta. We talked about going to Malta together for the summer." He laughs bitterly. "Well, at least one of us gets to enjoy it."

The pub is quiet in this late afternoon hour, serviced only by a reserved bartender who keeps to himself and whispers silent curses at the telly. John is rather proud when he checks in with himself, eyeing the amount of alcohol he’s downed so far. Barely one pint, though he’d asked the bartender to have another one ready for when this one's emptied.

He sees the tall figure stalking into the pub out of the corner of his eye and he sighs, bracing himself. He thought he'd feel like a kid caught ditching school, but it's a bit of a relief to be found.

This is as good a time as any, to be honest. At least he's not mind-numbingly drunk and trying to pull whichever patron seems more miserable than he.

He had tried that a few times since she’d left; he got cold feet every time.

"Are you tracking the whereabouts of every Watson out there?" he murmurs as Sherlock sits down quietly. Sherlock's staring at his phone, texting, seemingly unperturbed.

"No," Sherlock replies quietly, then smiles at the phone as if genuinely considering it. "Not a bad idea though."

John takes a long swig of his pint, emptying it. Waits for the bartender to notice. He doesn't ask, yet Sherlock answers while signalling the bartender for a refill.

"Jane from the surgery emailed you. Says she's worried," Sherlock says, and John exhales loudly. Jane likes to stick her nose where it doesn't belong. "Asks how Rosie's feeling, seeing as today's the third day off you've taken this week to take care of her."

"Stop reading my emails," John obliges Sherlock with thoroughly rehearsed banter.

"I was looking for new cases," Sherlock feigns innocence, playing along.

"I thought you had a case. You said you couldn’t come over for dinner last night." John wonders what's the point of pretending. Sherlock never comes over to the flat unless he absolutely has to, and when he does, he looks like a fish out of water. He thought he saw Sherlock planning exit routes the first time he was there, after Mary shot him. John couldn't blame him. He can’t say he never did the same himself.

"Solved it. It was the maintenance man at the fertility clinic. Admitted to fathering all 10 babies," Sherlock says. "Solved the case of who did it, though not of why one, let alone ten, women would have sex with a man who prides himself on watching Star Wars three hundred and sixty-eight times."

"Christ... ten babies?" John twitches his face, horrified.

Ten babies who came into this world through unfortunate consequences they'll have to live with their entire lives, wanted and yet unwanted. _Not unlike your own daughter_ , the thought pops up unexpectedly, and he frowns, sending it to the back of his mind.

"Yes. He suffers from a genetic disorder he very kindly passed on to all of them."

They’re silent for a few minutes, contemplating. Sherlock looks at him, then looks away again.

"We'll bring her back, John. The GPS tracker is tremendously accurate and I know where she is at any given moment," he says, staring at the telly, unseeing. "No need to single-handedly bankroll every liquor establishment within London proper.”

"Where is she now?"

They can't seem to look at each other.

"Somewhere in the vicinity of Valletta, last I checked," Sherlock says and John looks at him with a questioning look, not recognizing the name. "Malta."

"Malta. We talked about going to Malta together for the summer with Rosie." John's face sours, and he shakes his head. "Well, at least one of us gets to enjoy it."

Sherlock frowns deeply and looks down. John doesn’t understand the frown, but he thinks Sherlock is completely out of his emotional depth, and has been since Mary drugged him and left not two weeks ago. Sherlock has been trying to be helpful - considerate even - by spending every free moment gathering information about Mary and AGRA.

The problem is that, not unlike during the period after Mary shot him, Sherlock seems to be the one most determined to unite her with John. In being stubbornly supportive of the woman who put a bullet through his heart, Sherlock is Mary’s accomplice in breaking John's.

"I told you," Sherlock is slightly whispering now, repeating a conversation they've had over and over the last few days, "I’ve contacts in Algiers, in Morocco. I've been in touch with them to get ahead of this situation. She could be headed there next. Once she's there we'll go and fetch her—"

" _Fetch her?_ " John stops him, indignant, finally letting out the words he's been holding back for weeks. "She's left for her grand tour, free to be her old self again. She had passports, flight tickets, she was ready to leave on a moment’s notice. She doesn't _want_ to be fetched, Sherlock, can't you see? She _doesn't want_ anyone's help. This is who she is. Did you want to be fetched when you—" he stops, holding back.

He can't go into _that_ right now. Sherlock's eyes grow wide and angry for a split second, but John recognizes the moment Sherlock makes the same decision - _not getting into that right now_.

"She needs to be given the option, John, you need to..." Sherlock hesitates as John shakes his head. "She needs to know that I can protect her from Ajay, from the rest of it, here in London."

John is quiet, unsure how to proceed with this conversation without unpacking the train of crushing thoughts that had been eating away at him, sending him into pubs day in and day out.

Sherlock couldn’t possibly be that daft. Mr. I-Calculated-Thirteen-Possibilities couldn’t possibly think that this current shit-show is honestly down to Mary being _scared_ of an old colleague, can he? Asking him about that might confirm or deny John's worst fears, and he isn't sure which option scares him more.

"What if she doesn't _want_ to be found, Sherlock? How many times have you offered your protection right in front of my eyes?" John sighs. "She never took you on your offer. Sherlock… what if she isn't running away _from_ Ajay, but _with_ Ajay?"

And there it is.

Sherlock lowers his eyes, deathly quiet, absent-mindedly rubbing a discarded beer label in his right hand, his lips pinched. John's got his answer.

He looks at Sherlock pointedly, trying to catch his eyes. "A perfect exit plan for a bored ex-assassin, no? The timing. It’s weird, isn’t it? The busts on a case you were working on, put there to attract your attention to get the whole parade going. Brave Mary Watson, going away and dying like a martyr to protect her family while in reality, she's back to her old life. Poor naive little John Watson will never figure it out, will have her on a pedestal for the rest of his life."

He's been battling with this thought for days. He had assumed that after saying them out loud a weight would be lifted from his shoulders, his stomach would stop turning, but no. Instead, the weight becomes heavier.

Heavier still is the bigger secret he’s keeping from Sherlock, or so he’d like to think. He had thought that he'd kept the texts he’d sent to a stranger he'd met on a bus a secret. Mary had never mentioned them, but he can’t be sure; in all honesty, he’d be shocked if she hadn’t.

He’s scared to death thinking that’s one of the reasons she left. That would make this his fault.

He has no idea how to tell Sherlock about his straying eye, the middle-of-the-night texts. He hopes he never has to, but if Sherlock decides to go out of his way to find Mary, _she_ might. Or worse still, if Sherlock ends up hurt or dying fighting to save a wife John has been cheating on... John would never be able to live with that knowledge. Literally.

"I don't know who this Ajay is but if she's left her daughter behind to find him, maybe she doesn't want to kill him,” John sighs. “She… she never mentioned any exes other than David but… very early on, she... talked about one relationship that ended abruptly. I don't know. I'm just guessing, what the hell do I know about her? My lying wife."

Sherlock turns to look into his eyes - a piercing glare if John had ever seen one - for the first time since he’d entered the pub.

"John, she loves you," he says coolly, wincing when John scoffs again. "When she left, she asked me to take care of you till she’s back. I won't lie and tell you I didn’t think there might be other explanations, other forces at work. But she deserves the benefit of the doubt—" Sherlock continues quickly when he sees John's doubting stare, "—of assuming she's not off playing secret spy and enjoying it. You've made that mistake before. You were gravely wrong then as you might be now."

And somehow, even though they had silently agreed to _not get into that_ , here they are, and John feels the words like a punch. He can't bring himself to close his mouth, blindsided.

Mary’s the one who left. She’s the one John is angry with. How did he end up hurting Sherlock?

When Sherlock speaks again, John lifts his eyes to see him paying the tab. His regular mask of coolness and self-control is back in its place.

"Shouldn’t you be picking Rosie up?" Sherlock asks as he nods a thank you to the bartender, standing up to put his phone in his pocket. John stares at the bar, hearing the dismissal and choking on a response.

This isn't the way he thought this conversation would end. Not with another proof that he's a bad friend, bad husband, bad father, even though he's the one being left behind every single time.

John buries his head in his hands. Everything is always his fault, isn’t it?

“I’ll bring Rosie over later, yeah? Dinner?” John asks over his shoulder.

"I'm off to Barts for the evening." Sherlock turns away, looking anywhere but at John. Placing his hands in his coat, he heads for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the case Sherlock solved sounds familiar, you're probably a fellow X-Files fan who knows his season 4 quite well. That means you also know that the maintenance man's last name is spelled with a silent H.


	3. Unbalanced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘You just look after them ’til I get back,’ she said as she left, but by leaving she distorted the balance of it all, the system.

Rosie Watson is angry at the world and everything in it, and her wails are her way of expressing it. Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Hudson understand, but they’re at the end of their respective ropes. 

John had been spending the afternoon at Mrs. Hudson’s with Sherlock, the two still awkward around each other after their conversation at the pub. A baby and an elderly lady prove to be excellent buffers.

Sherlock had been watching John and Mrs. Hudson playing, feeding, and cooing at the baby, while he sat in the back, unsure how to join them. Then John was called in for an emergency case at the surgery and Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to offer to mind her for a few hours.

Rosie had started screaming the minute her father had left her, admittedly limited, field of vision.

“Poor thing,” Mrs. Hudson now sighs, wincing. “Probably feels abandoned by her father, too.”

Sherlock is thrown off by the suggestion, the implication. He sniffs, frowns. “Don’t be dramatic, Mrs. Hudson. Babies her age haven’t developed object permanence yet. She’s practically a worm.”

Mrs. Hudson rolls her eyes quite heavily at him. “She’s not a worm, Sherlock Holmes. She's a tiny little thing who was abandoned by her mother, and she knows it.” She picks her up, trying for a cuddle. “You don’t think she misses Mary’s smell? Mary’s voice? Of course she does.”

“She wasn’t abandoned,” Sherlock whispers. He looks straight into Mrs. Hudson's eyes in the hopes of sounding convincing. “Mary’s coming back.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson stares sadly and shakes her head. It’s one of those stares that make him feel like he’s a naive 5-year-old who has no grasp on humans and their terrible nature. She’s the only person in the world who can make him feel this way.

A cuddle isn’t exactly what Rosie needs, and even Sherlock, with no experience with babies to speak of, can detect the misery in the sounds she makes. Mrs. Hudson picks up a toy and offers it, to no avail.

“Why don’t you try? My shoulder’s a bit stiff tonight,” Mrs. Hudson says and moves closer, slightly raising her right shoulder to emphasize her claim.

He chokes on the biscuit he’s chewing.

“Let’s not make things worse, Mrs. Hudson.” He shakes his head. His only interactions with Rosie so far had been from afar, or when safely strapped to a carry-on with one of her parents physically present.

“Please Sherlock, my shoulder,” Mrs. Hudson is pleading, moving towards him and then adding, “She knows you, she knows your lovely voice. It might work. Just relax.”

 _Relax_ , he thinks, as Mrs. Hudson places the baby in his arms, positioning her.

He seems to be expected to relax when Mary Watson is out there, doing who knows what to who knows who. This woman, who went completely under his radar while being right in front of his eyes the entire time. Who was lucky enough to have everything he’d ever wanted and leave it all behind.

John says he doesn't want her to come back until she chooses to do so herself, but Sherlock knows better. The things John Watson says and the things John Watson feels are very different indeed.

‘You just look after them ’til I get back,’ she'd said as she'd left, but by leaving she'd distorted the balance of it all, the system. He’s just an outsider, looking into their lives as a spectator - a bouncer at the gate.

He’s not equipped in any way to provide happiness. All he can hope to offer is help in taming the assassin Mary Watson; working with her to help Mother and Wife Mary Watson to protect her family and keep them safe. 

It’s her job to make them happy. 

He doesn’t know what to do now that a vital part of the equation is missing. He was left behind with John and Rosie, miserable together, looking at him with expectant eyes and waiting for him to magically solve it all.

Rosie is wailing in his arms, thoroughly unimpressed by his jittery efforts. He tries talking to her in his most soothing voice, looking into her eyes. "That's enough, Watson. Your father will be back in no time." 

He tells a story about a silly dog named Toby, a blue-eyed soldier named John. She doesn’t care.

He raises his eyes to Mrs. Hudson, pleading quietly. She sighs and gently takes the baby away.

He just can’t seem to make any of the Watsons happy. 

Why is he like this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love babies, I don't really think they're worms. That's Sherlock talking, not me.


	4. Mantras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tel Aviv.”  
> “Hmm?” John hums, his thoughts scattered.  
> “Tel Aviv. That’s where she is right now.”  
> John stares at the whiskey.  
> “Why would she go to Tel Aviv? Doesn’t make sense.” Sherlock wonders aloud, brows furrowed.  
> John takes a sip and doesn’t say a word. Sherlock registers the silence, turns to look at him with a raised eyebrow.  
> “Maybe she really wanted a good hummus bowl.” John says.

The day had been a perfect storm for everyone involved.

Rosie is fussy in daycare, coming down with something undetermined. John has to scramble to leave the surgery on short notice to spend the day with her, realizing she's probably coming down with a bad case of missing her mother.

He decides to visit Sherlock in Baker Street later that evening, knowing the detective is close to solving the case he’s been working on the past few days. Spending entire days alone with Rosie always leaves John yearning for interactions with humans who actually speak. Sherlock can be a bit of a gamble in that aspect, depending on his mood, but John will take what he can get.

They go to the shops to stock up on groceries for spag bol. Lestrade updates that the case is solved, so Sherlock will have no excuse for not eating. But Sherlock and Lestrade keep getting delayed at the Yard, and they only show up well after 8 PM.

Sherlock is bruised and slightly bleeding ( _“He wouldn’t let the paramedics touch him, stubborn git. Thought I’d take him home, make sure he gets here all right.”_ ) 

John has to use his Captain voice to force Sherlock down on a chair, so he can tend to his wounds and make him eat. Before they know it, it’s 10 PM.

John and Lestrade are finishing up with the cleaning, looking at Rosie sleeping soundly in her portable car seat in the sitting room. She hasn’t been sleeping well since Mary left, and John’s been making a point to not stay at Baker Street overnight with her. A colleague at the surgery advised keeping a very strict and repetitive schedule at home to help her to deal with the 'significant events in her life.’ 

He supposes one can call being abandoned by your mother a significant life event, he remembers thinking bitterly.

She's been having difficulties sleeping for weeks yet here she is, sleeping peacefully next to Sherlock’s sofa. What the hell does he or anyone else know about how she feels or what she needs?

Sherlock is furiously clicking away on his laptop. John recognizes this behaviour. Now that he’s done with a case, his attention is turned fully to Mary and her whereabouts. In the past few weeks, the tracker reported Norway, Ukraine, and then the US. Right now, he’s grumbling and mumbling about red-eye flights while texting Mycroft. Lestrade looks at John knowingly and nods, bidding his farewell. The DI is an honorary member of the small circle of people who know exactly when to leave Sherlock Holmes the fuck alone.

John is sitting in his chair, sighing heavily in celebration of an end to an eventful day. 

“We’re staying overnight, don’t want to drag her across town at this hour. I hope you don’t mind.” Sherlock grunts something that sounds a lot like ‘of course I don’t mind’ in return.

John’s lips are just about to touch the whiskey tumbler when Sherlock speaks. 

“Tel Aviv.”

“Hmm?” 

“Tel Aviv. That’s where she is right now.”

John stares at the whiskey.

“Why would she go to Tel Aviv? Doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock wonders aloud, brows furrowed.

John takes a sip without a word. Sherlock registers the silence, turns to look at him with a frown.

“Maybe she really wanted a good hummus bowl,” John says.

Sherlock is puzzled by the joke, opening his mouth to respond when a text message arrives. He looks down and curses at Mycroft’s response ( _“Don’t mess with Mossad on their turf, Sherlock. I never do.”)._ Sherlock looks at the laptop again, frustrated with the change in plans. 

“Well, at least she’s back in the Mediterranean,” Sherlock says. “Hopefully she’ll move towards North Africa next.”

This time, John’s silence fully captures Sherlock’s attention. 

“Why aren’t you…?” Sherlock asks, turning his head from the laptop screen.

“Why aren’t I what?” John stares back, itching for an argument. “I thought we had this conversation before. She’ll come back when she wants to, _if_ she wants to.”

“She might be in danger!” Sherlock says.

“If she were in any real danger, your brother would have told us.” John takes a sip. 

In his first-ever therapy session with Ella, years ago, she’d told John about the body’s instinctive choices of response to a threat; fight or flight. John knew this mechanism thoroughly and intimately, as Ella quickly pointed out.

“You’re a medical doctor, you’re a soldier. Of course I know you know these things.” She’d smiled. “But I’m here to speak to John Watson the man. To teach him how to control the fight or flight response and to prevent it from turning into a fully-fledged panic attack. That’s the best way to fight anxiety - nip it in the bud.”

And teach him she did. Ella was nothing if not a professional, and he found the tools she gave him quite helpful.

One day, though, her encouraging smile had dropped for a split second. He’d just finished saying he was disappointed with his body and mind for succumbing to the flight instinct again during another anxiety attack. 

“I fought in a war. I treated wounded soldiers under enemy fire. I’m better than that.”

She’d looked him straight in the eyes when she spoke next. 

“There’s not a right or wrong choice when we panic, John. This is pure animal instinct, and each person responds differently to various threats. You’re an excellent first responder, you always have been. You don’t freeze when you need to react with your body. It’s your emotions that bring about panic, not the outside world,” She’d crossed her legs. “Fight isn’t always better than flight. Sometimes, fight can get you killed or hurt. No one, yourself included, should ever judge you for the braveness, or lack thereof, of the choice your body makes when you’re in danger.”

Priceless words of wisdom. Of course she was right.

But John… he judges Mary. He judges her every day for choosing to run away, for ignoring Sherlock’s offers to help. For stealing John’s agency, his choice in the matter of how to deal with a mortal threat to himself and his family. 

He doesn’t believe Sherlock when he tells him it’s safer this way, or that it was her only option. Mary is the woman who outsmarted Sherlock Holmes, caught him by surprise and nearly took his life. If she wanted, if she _really_ wanted to face this danger together, she would have had no better partner than Sherlock, and by extension, John.

Mary chose flight; from her enemy as much as from their fragile marriage. And if she isn’t willing to fight for the two of them, why should he?

John’s mind drifts back to the sitting room. His right hand is propped up on his chair, tumbler close to his temples. He’s staring daggers at the back of Sherlock’s head, hoping to get his attention.

He has so many questions.

 _Why do you care so much_ , he wants to ask him. Is this some sort of weird camaraderie? Is her escape reminding you of your days away, fighting alone to save everyone else’s lives all by yourself? 

This isn’t the same, he wants to tell him. 

When did we become this stilted triangle? Why do you need her presence to be able to be at ease with mine? 

How did she do this to us?

What are you afraid of, Sherlock? This used to be everything we needed. It’s what you offered when you came back. I couldn’t accept it then, but here I am. Offer it again. Just say the words. 

Sherlock speaks suddenly, distracting John from his thoughts. "She said she'll talk you around, and she did."

"What's that?"

"The day I came back, you were furious. She promised she'll get you to forgive me."

"So?"

"And you did. And I got my friend back. I owe this to her, John," Sherlock says. “I’m in her debt.”

"No, you’re not," John says, grinding his teeth in anger. “Sherlock—”

Sherlock closes the laptop screen, takes his phone in his hand and stands up.

"I forgave you because you asked for my forgiveness,” John says. “It had nothing to do with her." His eyes follow a silent Sherlock as he moves towards his bedroom. 

“She makes you happy, John,” Sherlock says quietly. “I’m doing the best I can.”

He hates Sherlock’s mantras. ‘She makes you happy’, ‘She loves you, John’. He’s been saying that ever since she shot him.

John can’t stand it.

He exhales and closes his eyes, resting his head against the chair. “I never said you didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am NOT a mental health professional, so I really don't know if Ella's words are in line or even philosophically and/or morally "correct". Don't take anything Ella says as life advice or guidance.


	5. Explorers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'We’ve tried that recently. She.. wasn’t a fan.”
> 
> “Tried.. what? A fan of whom?” John frowns.
> 
> “Me.” Sherlock says quickly. “She was quite adamant about it. I.. we’re not very comfortable around each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff!

The next morning, a Sunday, John and Rosie wake up refreshed following an uncharacteristically good night’s sleep.

After Sherlock retired to his room last night, John moved Rosie to the upstairs bedroom in the car seat and decided to just go with the rule-breaking; they cuddled together the entire night, safe and snug, and only woke briefly for a couple of feedings.

They wait for Sherlock to wake up, and John does his absolute best to ignore their late-night discussion. The situation is difficult for them both, and they end up fighting and sniping constantly.

If that’s Sherlock's way of relieving the tension, John can handle it. He’s seen Sherlock at his worst and this isn’t it. As long as Mary’s away, he’s willing to be the one who forgives and forgets every time.

He manages to convince Sherlock to join them for a walk in the park. Rosie is in a baby carrier, close to John’s body. Sherlock is a walking shadow one step behind him, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s being protective, expecting some unknown assailant.

Sherlock only relaxes when John points out the detective’s (secret) favourite coffee cart, the one sells that pastry that makes Sherlock happy and relaxed (there's a lot of chocolate involved). It works like a charm, and by the time he’s halfway through the pastry, Sherlock is laughing and smiling at Rosie’s gurgling.

John sits on a bench, declaring he’d like a coffee and a pastry himself. He hands Rosie to Sherlock who swallows loudly and shakes his head.

“We’ve tried that recently. She… wasn’t a fan.”

“Tried… what? A fan of whom?” John frowns.

“Me,” Sherlock says quickly. “She was quite adamant about it. I… we’re not very comfortable around each other.”

“Well, you better get comfortable, Sherlock, because I need coffee,” John says, aiming for a light tone. _You better get comfortable_ , he wants to say, _because I can’t do this alone, and with the way things are going, that’s exactly what’s waiting for me_.

Sherlock blinks once, twice, unsure about his next move.

John pulls his tablet from his bag and loads the YouTube app.

“Pick something, anything on YouTube...” He places Rosie in Sherlock’s lap, arranging the two against each other. “Just be yourself and make her feel like you’re here for her. And watch her head!” He finishes, admiring his handiwork.

Detective and baby look up at him, both blinking some more. _Good_ , he wants to say, enjoying the view. _Go ahead you two, make crazy plans behind my back and laugh about my jumpers_.

“‘Be yourself’, John? Really?” Sherlock huffs, rearranging Rosie in his lap with gentle uncertainty. “That’s the worst advice anyone ever gave me. Have you met me?”

John smiles a bright, proud smile as he walks away. “Try singing. She loves that!”

Rosie isn’t on with losing sight of her father, and she squirms with semi-panic when it happens. Sherlock quickly returns to the YouTube app as instructed, picking a random video. The title claims to feature a man called Carl Sagan, and the video starts playing. It’s full of photos of people and animals, and the man’s voice - one assumes, Mr. Sagan - is gentle and slow. He talks of humans and animals and Earth.

“I suppose this is a conspiracy to teach me about the solar system,” Sherlock grumbles quietly in Rosie’s ear.

Sherlock assumes that Rosie’s worm brain can’t possibly be interested in this video, but she looks in the general direction of the tablet, quiet and keen. She alternates between sucking on her fingers and touching the screen. They watch together in silence, stare as the next video in the playlist starts playing automatically.

When John sits back down holding a coffee and a pastry, he leans back silently to watch them. Sensing this, Sherlock throws a quick look his way, careful not to break the magic that is a silent Rosamund Watson. John smiles and his cheeks turn pink as he lowers his eyes, not saying a word.

When Rosie loses interest in the videos, she looks at her father who’s busy enjoying being toddler-free for a few minutes. Sherlock is distracted, busy deducing fellow park-goers when Rosie suddenly holds on to his nose.

She’s surprisingly strong.

“What’s happening?” he asks John but doesn’t move, as if frightened of waking a sleeping beast.

John chuckles. “She’s exploring.”

“My nose?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow and John nods, laughing still. “I suppose every piece of data counts, Watson.”

An elderly woman approaches their bench, smiling politely. “Mind if I take a minute’s rest next to you?” She sits down slowly, wincing.

“Our pleasure.” John offers a helping hand.

Fully seated now, the woman looks at the three of them, smiling. “You’ve a lovely daughter.”

“Thank you,” he says and gets up to throw the cup while Rosie continues to explore Sherlock’s nose from various angles.

“Nosy Rosie.” John hears a soft murmur coming from the bench as Sherlock stands up with Rosie, not meant for his ears.

The nickname sticks from that day onwards - but only when Sherlock thinks John can’t hear him say it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about that soothing Carl Sagan playlist, [I'm here for you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2oXFWKpJiA). 
> 
> If there's a Regent's Park pastry expert in the audience who can offer a name for Sherlock's choice of chocolate-y goodness, let me know.


	6. Playing House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, they say it takes a village to raise a child.”  
> “Who says that?”  
> “People, Sherlock.”

Sherlock Holmes only initiates phone calls when they’re absolutely justified.

Yelling at John Watson for bleaching his eczema experiment paraphernalia during an off-season spring-clean is justification enough, in Sherlock’s opinion.

“H’lo.” Sherlock’s back straightens immediately upon hearing the doctor’s voice. John Watson is stinking drunk at 11 am on a Saturday.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is stern, cold.

“...Sh’lock?”

“You’re inebriated.”

“Ummm.”

“Where’s Watson?” Sherlock cuts right to the point. John’s drinking has improved drastically recently. He’s been dealing with Mary’s absence much better.

Something happened.

“She’s right here... She’s OK.” John sounds like he’s trying his very best to sound coherent. It’s not working.

“Is it... Mary? Did she contact you?” Sherlock asks as he gathers his things.

“No, of course she didn’t.”

“I’m on my way.”

40 minutes later, John opens the door to the flat. He looks ashen, confused, and drunker than he’s been in a while.

It takes Sherlock 1.3 seconds to deduce what happened and John can tell, despite his current condition.

“Yeah,” is all John says, used to being an open book.

Sherlock knew John took the day away from Baker Street for Rosie’s sake. John’s colleague from the surgery ( _Ann. A nurse. Daughter's a result of an affair with an unknown married man. Considers flirting with John when the Mary debacle solves itself._ ) invited Rosie to a group playdate, if you can call it a playdate when most participants only recently learned how to hold their heads up.

John went willingly, happy for a change of scenery for Rosie ( _Uninterested in Ann_ ). This was something Mary would probably say is good for her.

He braved through the gossipy whispers and the side glances, smoothly avoiding any questions about Mary. Very quickly though, he was pummelled with questions about his future plans for Rosie.

_Which baby classes are you attending? Will you be moving her to another daycare centre, now that that news article was published about that dreadful owner? Will you start giving her some solid food soon? A bit early, isn’t it? Have you considered switching her to a dairy-free formula? Are you hiring an expert to help with her sleep problems? Is she on a waiting list to Acorn Park? (“‘She’s not?! What on earth are you waiting for?”)._

Brave John Watson - who invaded Afghanistan, who tackled James Moriarty in a pool, who’d been raising Rosie as a single father for all intents and purposes for months - fell prey to a group of busybody mothers. Their questions brought home the fact that he has so many life-altering decisions to make for his tiny daughter, that his wife left, and she’s not there to make those decisions with him. The realization landed on his head, heavy as an anvil. He found himself in the grips of a panic attack in less than an hour.

He came home and attached himself to a bottle of whiskey.

John is feeding Rosie on the sofa - doing a stand-up job of it, considering. She’s dozing in his arms, unaware of her father’s mental state. When she’s done, Sherlock wordlessly takes her from him.

John stretches on the sofa, falling asleep.

* * *

He wakes up a few hours later to find Sherlock holding Rosie up close, their noses nearly touching. Sherlock’s sticking his tongue out and John nods hello.

“Fancy seeing you outside of zone 1. What are you two up to?” John croaks.

“According to the book I read, Watson should be able to mimic complex facial expressions by now,” Sherlock explains while staring into Rosie’s eyes.

“You mean stick her tongue back at you.”

“Precisely.”

“OK,” he says defiantly and groans with the headache Sherlock assumes is quickly developing.

John takes the water and painkillers Sherlock put next to him earlier, moves his legs a little so Sherlock and Rosie can join him on the sofa. Sherlock’s still testing Rosie’s reactions: sticking his tongue out, raising his eyebrows, closing his eyes. She raises her eyes at Sherlock, puts on a big smile, and lets out a rolling, high-pitched laugh.

Sherlock knows that babies are nothing but a bundled collection of evolutionary tricks aimed at ensuring their survival. That’s why they cry and wail and have cute features - so they can convince adults to keep them alive. Laughter is simply a survival mechanism.

And it just melted Sherlock’s heart.

When she laughs again he looks at her, bewildered, then joins her with one of his low baritone chuckles. His smile is wiped off when he turns to look at John. John's face is tense, the memories of his panic attack returning.

“Please don’t lecture me on how everything will be fine when she comes back.” John closes his eyes and covers them with the crook of his elbow.

“Alright,” Sherlock concedes. He appreciates clear instructions if nothing else.

“It’s not going to be OK if she comes back, Sherlock,” John says. “Can you understand why? You can’t walk out like that expecting no consequences when you return.”

“I understand, John.” And yet.

“What is it?” John detected the hesitation in his voice.

Sherlock lowers his eyes, hesitating. “The assumptions you made about Ajay… that they’re... I think you’re wrong. I saw murderous anger in his eyes; he wasn’t looking for long-lost love.”

“Alright. What’s your point?”

“That you’re worried she’s left you for somebody else. I don’t think she did.”

“I’ve plenty of other reasons to resent her. She has more than enough secrets, still.” Sherlock doesn’t interrupt. John rarely speaks so openly and frankly. “We... I.. I was still working on forgiving her.”

“For shooting me,” Sherlock replies.

John nods. “For shooting you. For lying about it. For lying about who she really is.” John hesitates over a thought that crosses his mind. “She said she understood that it might take me awhile. I’m not perfect. I have things to figure out myself but..”

“But it takes work, and it takes time. And you need to stay and fight for it. You don’t leave. I think you know that too, Sherlock, don’t you? It’s why you insisted I go back to her.” He stares at Sherlock.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Yes, that’s exactly why.” What else could he say? I sent you back because you didn’t want me. I sent you back because you were conflicted anyway, it was written all over your face. Because she might have lashed out if I didn’t and I couldn’t be responsible for her hurting you. I sent you back because you chose her and you’d have gone back eventually, anyway. This way we can still pretend _I_ sent _you_.

“It just doesn’t work that way in relationships, Sherlock. You can’t force someone to be where they don’t want to be.”

“Yes, John, I’m aware of that.” Sherlock is not oblivious to the multiple accusations John is including in his choice of words.

They’re silent for a moment. “Perhaps a marriage counsellor. Couples therapy,” Sherlock suggests.

John chuckles and shakes his head. “Genius. How come I didn't think of that? Is that the best idea your brilliant mind can come up with?”

Sherlock has no answer to that.

“Can you imagine the introductions? Hi, this is my murderer-for-hire wife and mother of my child. I’m an adrenaline junkie with anger issues. She just came back from a world tour doing god knows what while I was playing house with my best friend.”

Sherlock's mouth falls open. Oh, he thinks to himself. Is that what you're doing, John?

John sits upright and closes the distance between them, leans in a little to catch Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this on my own, Sherlock.” He points at Rosie and the flat.

“For the record, John, I don’t think you're going to need to go at it alone but if you do... Of course you can. You’re a wonderful father.”

“You know, they say it takes a village to raise a child.”

“Who says?”

“ _People_ , Sherlock.” John rolls his eyes. “It's so much work, so much responsibility, and I… Rosie was supposed to be the thing to build this marriage around. She's the reason I returned. I was supposed to have someone to walk down this road with. Doing it alone is…” His thoughts stray, and he doesn't finish the sentence.

“There are plenty of single parents in the world, John. Everything can be outsourced these days, including child care. ‘Gig economy’ as it were.” Sherlock makes a face at the millennial term. “We can ask Mycroft to help find a vetted nursery school--”

“No, Sherlock,” John closes his eyes, his breath his shallow, a signature move for when he thinks Sherlock is being deliberately obtuse. “That’s not what I mean.”

I know exactly what you mean, John. We tend to repeat our patterns, don't we? Because when Mary comes back, playing house won’t be enough anymore. I'll have to send you back again. And if it won't be Mary, it'll just be somebody else. Don’t ask me to go through that again, John."

"What, Sherlock?" John asks. "I can see your mind working. What is it?"

Sherlock's silence disheartens John.

“Do you like Rosie?” John asks softly, placing a hesitant hand on Sherlock’s knee, squeezing it.

“Of course I do.” Sherlock frowns and looks down at her. How could he not?

“Well, that’s a start.”

John’s hand is still on his knee, and Sherlock holds his breath. The moment stretches and then it’s gone. Rosie makes herself known with a small cry.

John exhales loudly. He’s upset. He picks Rosie up and goes to change her nappy, catching a whisper of “Goodbye, Nosy Rosie,” when he moves towards the stairs.

By the time John comes back to the sitting room, Sherlock is gone.


	7. So.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s allowed to... Whatever this is. Have other friends? Flirt? Expand his professional network?

John closes his laptop with a sigh. He’s in his old room in Baker Street, where he’s been spending his mornings with Sherlock this week, taking a few days off from the surgery.

Mrs. Hudson is having 221C treated for mould and she asked Sherlock to get rid of some of the stuff he’s been storing there (“Mould is a beautiful thing, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t know why you’re so adamant to get rid of it.”)

There are boxes and boxes filled with Sherlock’s stuff so John offered to help. Unfortunately, Jane from the surgery called saying they’re swamped, and would he mind taking a few video consultations after all?

So that’s what he’s been doing these past 90 minutes. Baker Street is oddly quiet, and more often than not, that’s not a good sign.

He takes the stairs down to the sitting room, calling for Sherlock. When he turns the corner to the kitchen, he’s surprised to find Sherlock with a guest.

DI Stella Hopkins is a strong, smart, confident woman. John had met her before and has nothing but good things to say about her.

The thing is Hopkins also seems to - for lack of a non-juvenile way to put - have a crush on Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes. Whether Sherlock is aware or not is anyone’s guess, but he once told John the DI “isn’t as stupid as the rest of that lot.” That’s a high praise if he’s ever heard one.

Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table reviewing case files. The DI is standing close, putting a hand on the back of Sherlock’s chair. They’re talking comfortably, pointing and nodding. It’s all very above-board.

John hates her.

She’s been coming over lately, unplanned visits as far as John’s aware. She brings case files and Yard gossip veiled as professional consultations. They exchange unflattering stories about Lestrade like a couple of teenagers. Sherlock is… cooperative.

“Oh, hello, Dr. Watson,” The DI welcomes him.

He smiles back, a thin, crooked smile. Sherlock turns to look at him with a smile. “Stella's brought over some good cases, John.”

_Stella?_

“Yeah?” John croaks, his voice shrill. “Great. I’ll be in 221C.”

He leaves the flat, sighing. He didn't offer tea. Stella doesn't deserve tea.

Later, Sherlock joins him in 221C. John’s had a long internal discussion with his brain and his mouth and everyone agreed he should say absolutely nothing. Sherlock’s allowed to... Whatever this is. Have other friends? Flirt? Expand his professional network?

“So,” his brain and his mouth betray him. He remembers saying the same thing one terrible Christmas, a few years ago.

Sherlock looks at him over a pile of papers and says nothing for a short time.

John has to strain himself to catch the murmur a few minutes later. “Not my area, John. Remember?”

Oh, as if he could ever forget. “Right. Right.”

* * *

Rosie’s getting big and rather feisty. Nappy changes now involve a lot of manoeuvring to get her to stop moving around.

He finishes changing her, balancing her on his hip as he descends the stairs from his (old?) bedroom at 221B to the sitting room. An unplanned guest rang the bell as he was taking her up, so he looks over to Sherlock and the second person in the room.

With Rosie still in his arms, he walks over to stand by Sherlock and listens.

Christopher Lyons is an intelligent if somewhat dour-looking client who’s been to Baker Street once before.

He’s the general manager of “Reconsidering The Human Body: An Exhibit”, a Body Worlds knock-off of sorts. He reached out to Sherlock a few days ago regarding disappearing body parts - he's justifiably distraught, considering they’re weeks away from the grand opening.

The whole thing makes John cringe, to be perfectly honest. Sherlock, however - his eyes lit up the moment he heard the tale of misplaced body parts (“Who’s your supplier?” Sherlock asked Mr. Lyons. John had to divert the client’s attention with a loud cough and a thoroughly polite “Tea?”).

Sherlock is currently in his Case Solved mode. He’s speaking quickly and detailing how he unlocked the mysteries of the vanishing limbs.

Lyons is advised to fire no less than five lighting technicians and one secretary (“She’s sleeping with your curator as well as your accountant.” “But… the curator and the accountant are married”. “I know.”). He’s being brilliant as ever, and Mr. Lyons seems to think so as well.

“Incredible,” is all the client manages, his mouth shaped like an O. He looks at Sherlock like he’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.

Sherlock, John, and Rosie walk Mr. Lyons to the door, discussing compensation (“I insist, Mr. Holmes.”).

When Sherlock dismisses him, Lyons hands Sherlock his business card and straightens his back nervously. “Well, if you won’t take payment at least let me invite you to be my guest on opening night. And dinner, maybe.”

John’s polite smile vanishes. He’s bracing himself to intervene, expecting Sherlock’s usual “Not interested!”.

Sherlock takes the card, turns it over. He clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says and closes the door behind Mr. Lyons as he heads for the stairs.

John’s dizzy. He adjusts Rosie on his hip.

Later, they’re having dinner in the kitchen. Mr. Lyons’ business card is on the table, standing out like a sore thumb. He picks it up, looks at Sherlock.

“So. Not your area?”

Sherlock is incredibly interested in his soup. “Body parts on display? Exactly my area.”

“No, not the body parts, Sherlock.”

Silence.

“Right, right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I tried to think what Christopher Lyons looks like, Hugh Laurie popped into my head. Make of that what you will.


	8. Impasse

The showdown, such as it is, catches them by surprise a few days after Christopher Lyons gave Sherlock his business card.

It’s been three months since Mary left. The time has been filled with terrible lows and some unforeseen beautiful highs. Mary has been travelling around the globe, taking unexpected routes, never stopping for longer than a week and a half. She never contacts either of them and shows no signs of moving slowly back towards London. John has no idea what she’s looking for.

The truth is that John is doing alright. He can’t say that aloud, no one would understand. He wishes Mary was here for her daughter, of course, but John has to shake his head a few times a day when he remembers his wife is out there, on the run, and he's here in London, going about his life as usual.

In his heart of hearts, John has been saying his goodbyes.

Sherlock, John, and Rosie established what one might call a careful routine. Dinners at Baker Street, eclectic weekends, long days at the surgery and the Yard. John’s heart skips a beat whenever he sees the other two together, their chemistry. There was a learning curve - mostly for Sherlock - but now they’re at ease together, seeking the other out in a room and exchanging adoring glances.

They’re in the sitting room in 221B. Sherlock is texting furiously, John reading the newspaper aloud and making plans for the weekend. The plans _do not_ include interactions with large groups of mothers. John has learned his lesson.

Currently, there are talks of picking up dry cleaning and a few case files from the Yard (“Anderson is an idiot,” Sherlock declares, apropos of nothing. John hums in agreement.), the Zoo (“ _A penguin wedding, John?_ ”), and a walk through the park (“How imaginative.”).

They’re poking fun at each other, discussing the moral justifications (or lack thereof) of feeding the ducks in the park when the sound of footsteps invades their little bubble. John tenses and squeezes the armrest. They’re not expecting anyone.

It’s Mycroft, and when Sherlock deduces the reasons for his visit, his smile vanishes and all he manages is a quiet “ _Oh_.”

Mycroft scans the room, looks at Rosie near Sherlock's feet. John closes his eyes and holds his breath, imagines a million possible reasons for this visit, and fears them all.

“The woman we know as Mary Watson is en route to Morocco via Marseille, as we speak.” Mycroft leans on his umbrella. ”She’s expected to reach her final destination - the Hotel Cecil in Marrakech - by early afternoon tomorrow.”

John braces himself. Mycroft wouldn’t be here unless... “My sources assure me she’s walking straight into a death trap.”

Sherlock stands up and begins pacing like a maniac, Googling on his phone.

The following hour is a blur.

In what feels like a scene out of a sitcom, John and Sherlock discover they’ve _each_ made extensive plans to retrieve Mary alone, leaving the other behind to stay with Rosie and make sure she’s safe.

Sherlock is flabbergasted, looking disgusted: “And ensuring turning Watson into an orphan? I know you’re an idiot John, but this is a new level.”

John’s dangerous smile makes an appearance. “ _I’m_ the idiot?” John huffs, looking at Mycroft for support. “You’re the one who’ll jump in front of a bullet aimed at her. I won’t have that, Sherlock. I won’t! She’s MY problem.”

"I made a vow, John!”

John’s response to the billionth mention of that vow is to growl loudly and stomp into the sitting room, raising his hands.

The argument continues, reaching an impasse. It finally stops when Mycroft is left with no choice but to roll his eyes profusely and cough for attention. He straightens his back and looks at his nails, nonchalant.

“If you two can’t make a decision, I’m certainly capable of sending my people.” He smiles dangerously, raising an eyebrow in Sherlock's direction. “She’ll walk out alive, though certainly not free. Legally speaking, of course.”

There’s a staring contest. They avert their eyes at the same instant, retiring to different rooms grumbling angrily.

Later, they’re packing their bags in their respective flats, each angry and worried over the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much like John, I grew tired of the vow shtick very quickly.
> 
> A penguin wedding, you ask?  
> https://youtu.be/UdLIx2zAuL8?t=26


	9. Saving Mary Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The van is silent. Mary watches John from time to time. He’s avoiding her eyes. She can feel him radiating with furious energy, shaken from witnessing her standoff with Ajay and everything else he learned about her tonight. She’d try to talk to him but he’ll lash out. 
> 
> What’s there to say, anyway?

Mary watches Sherlock disconnect the call with Mycroft and looks at Ajay’s body. “He says to stay put for no more than two minutes. His lackeys are on the way to extract us.”

John is still on the floor next to Ajay, his head hanging, the palm of his hand cradling his forehead.

A group of agents storm in. They're hauled into a black van. They’re given fake passports and are instructed to change their clothes and turn their phones off until they arrive at the airport.

The van is silent. Mary watches John from time to time. He’s avoiding her eyes. She can feel him radiating with furious energy, shaken from witnessing her stand-off with Ajay and everything else he learned about her tonight. She’d try to talk to him, but he’ll only lash out.

What’s there to say, anyway?

They’re manhandled from one mode of transportation to another. She was never really given a choice about coming back with them. She assumed Morocco would be the place she'd meet up with Ajay or someone on his behalf, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to return to London if she survived the encounter. Someone betrayed them, sent them to their deaths, and she wants revenge.

Then Sherlock showed up and left her no choice but to return.

She knew something was up when Sherlock grumbled about unknown objects hidden in identical busts. That was a funny idea the four AGRA members had when they were still together, joking about contingencies. That’s why she made sure to be in the loop about the case, and manipulated him into calling her to join the search for Ajay across London.

By the time Sherlock and Ajay met face to face, everything was in place. She was ready to flee.

They’re in a small, derelict airport, huddling in a far corner of the boarding gate. They’re waiting for a red-eye flight to Luton. At some point, Sherlock asks questions, and they're having a conversation. He pulls his phone out to show photos of one thing or another, and her breath catches as a photo pops up.

Rosie. Rosie in Sherlock’s arms covered in a towel after a bath. Sherlock’s other arm is wrapped around Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder.

She’s grown. She’s laughing, engulfed by Sherlock. John probably took that photo. There are other photos. Rosie on a blanket on the floor of 221B. Rosie on John's lap in a restaurant.

At some point, she laughs. “Why come for me? Seems you’ve been getting along just fine.” The joke, such as it is, falls maddeningly flat. John lets out a bitter laugh, shakes his head, and walks away.

“Mary,” Sherlock says quietly, surprised.

Her smile is sad. “You know I’m right, Sherlock.” His face turns white and he lowers the phone. They sit silently until summoned to board the plane.

* * *

A red-eye flight to Luton from Morocco isn’t in high demand and the plane is nearly empty. Without a word, the three of them drift apart, sitting in different rows.

She knew she’d pay a heavy price for leaving. Sherlock and John are… well, Sherlock and John. The three of them only just reunited, but she can sense Sherlock’s renewed pull on John’s orbit as well as his heart. It’s clear as day. She can’t even begin to imagine what transpired between them while she was away.

She never understood Sherlock’s real reasoning behind keeping her so close, insisting on being the one fighting for their marriage. She’s sure a part of it is a stalling tactic - keep your enemies close, etc. Sherlock has been keeping a very watchful eye on her. Supposedly not in revenge, but in the name of his lifelong mission of Keeping John Watson Happy.

But Sherlock is also selfless to a fault when it comes to sending John her way whenever he seems to be drifting away from her. Tonight’s no different.

Mary isn’t, never was, and never will be selfless. She would have achieved nothing in her life by sacrificing something she wanted to somebody else. That’s not how you survive in this world. It's why she shot Sherlock and it's why she wouldn't hesitate to do it again if needed.

Yet there are two men in her life these days. One of them constantly fights to keep her safe and married, the other is her husband. Even she can see just how very dysfunctional this triangle is, at this point.

She has no idea where to even begin to talk to John when they’re back in London, nothing pre-planned. She’s tired, wrung out from months of looking over her shoulder for danger. There will be conversations; long and difficult ones. They’ve barely managed to feel comfortable together following their reconciliation at Christmas. They both thought having Rosie around would make things better and it did, just a little bit. They were civil, at the very least. Sherlock had even taken a step back, as much as he could.

Then she had to leave.

This time the conversations will have to be different. Last time, she promised to leave her professional past behind and never segway into undercover work again. John hadn’t even managed to wrap his mind around the fact that Rosie was in her belly when she shot Sherlock. He told her one day with a sour face that he’ll always carry that knowledge with him.

This time, she sees no point in making promises she won’t be able to keep. Not only is the person who betrayed them out there... If Ajay knew Mary was still alive, other people from their past might pop up at some point in his footsteps.

Sherlock is adamant on figuring this out for her, on saving her from herself. He’s more than welcome to give it a go. She doesn’t know what Mycroft or his colleagues have in store for her - now that she’s no longer pregnant and having pulled a disappearing act, she assumes she’s fair game.

She has her own path to walk now and she isn’t hiding anymore. John might ask for a separation or at least some time to think. She’s quite sure he’s been doing a lot of thinking in Baker Street while she was away. She doesn’t know how _she_ feels - no point in making plans, or worrying over speculations. Once they land in London, like Sherlock likes to say, the game is on.

She turns to look over at the others. Her breath catches. While she was lost in thoughts, John migrated to sit next to Sherlock.

John feels her eyes on them and looks at her, his stare defiant and tired. He looks away again.

* * *

It's been two days since they came back to London. Mary and John are coping by being terribly polite and patient. They tiptoe around each other doing day to day things like shopping and bathing Rosie. Mary assumes they’re gearing up for a confrontation.

One morning, she’s preparing to leave the house early, citing a postnatal gynecological checkup she’s been neglecting while away. John’s feeding Rosie. Mary’s talking about appointments and errands. His face transforms into a frown, chewing on his inner cheek in disbelief.

“I’ll be back later. I love you,” she says with the most cheery inflection one can invoke in the face of her husband's dying (dead?) affections.

He never responds.

She has a lot to do today. Sherlock is hot on the tracks of the person he claims betrayed AGRA, but she has her own contacts, her own resources. She needs new backup plans, new forged documents. A tripod for her smartphone, to make some videos, and a DVD burner.

No time to lose.

* * *

The next evening finds them in their sitting room, drinking wine. She can drink wine now that Rosie isn't nursing.

The air is thick with unspoken words. Mary knows the time for the confrontation they’ve been avoiding has come.

This is probably the end of the road for them.

“You don’t make it easy, do you?” she starts.

“What d’you mean?” John’s surprised by her choice of words.

“Well, being-- being so perfect.”

“Mary... I-I need to tell you…”

Their phones ping.


	10. Epilogue: Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d surrounded himself with the two most inhumanly observant people on the planet, but they never really saw the parts of him he wanted them to see.

John’s standing behind the door to his flat, hiding like a coward. Molly had just come over to pick Rosie up for the night. He was collecting the last things for the overnight bag when they heard the knock on the door.

Molly’s talking to Sherlock outside, Rosie balanced on her hip. Before she went out the door, she pleaded with John to change his mind, but John’s heart is hard as a rock these days.

He’s had enough of being the dispensable one. The one who's left broken-hearted by the two people he loves the most.

The door opens and he hears Molly saying goodbye. He’s relieved. It’s over; he doesn’t have to deal with this now.

Then he hears it, a soft baritone murmur: “Bye, Nosy Rosie.”

Memories of Mary’s time away flood him. Sherlock whispering ‘Nosy Rosie’ quietly on a bench in Regent's Park, shy about his affection.

John can’t move, can’t open his eyes.

Molly comes back in, her voice shaking. “I can’t believe you asked me to do that.” She sniffles, “That was cruel.”

When he finally opens his eyes, he realizes Molly and Rosie are gone. He goes to the kitchen and pulls out a bottle from the cabinet.

* * *

After being dragged out of the mortuary, John is thrown into a small, dark room to await the police. His knuckles are stiff and stained with Sherlock’s blood.

When Lestrade finds him there, John is shocked, unresponsive. He looks at him with an appalling mix of shock, disgust, and pity. The DI is talking to him, but he can’t hear. His mind goes blank, and he’s transported to Ella’s office, to words she told him once.

_“Fighting isn’t always better than flight. Sometimes, fighting can get you killed or hurt. But no one, yourself included, should ever judge you for the braveness, or lack thereof, of the choice your body makes when you’re in danger.”_

To his horror, John realizes that he managed to prove Ella wrong. Or more to the point, that he’s finally proven that he is the dysfunctional, damaged man she always tried to convince him he isn’t.

Because down in the mortuary, John wasn’t in danger, Sherlock was. And John chose a fight response, instead of flight. And he hurt Sherlock like he never hurt anyone else in his life.

John judges himself. He has every right to. He hates himself. He wants to crawl into the ground and stay there. He wants to die.

John's phone pings. “ _ **Dr. Watson, we need to talk. -MH**_ ”

* * *

John and Sherlock are at a Café, waiting for Molly and Rosie to join them.

He’s still recovering from his breakdown in the flat not 20 minutes ago. Sherlock looks collected and calm, considering the state he’s in.

John wishes he could say the same about himself.

He wants to say so much more. He wants to talk more about Irene’s texts. He wants to tell Sherlock that on the way here, a “Reconsidering The Human Body: An Exhibit” ad poster was stuck right in front of his eyes on the Tube. He wants to ask Sherlock about Christopher Lyons’ business card. Did Sherlock keep it? Does he intend to use it?

He wants to know how Sherlock feels about his infidelity confession. He was so scared of raising it with Mary and with Sherlock, and he somehow managed to tell both of them at once.

He always thought if Sherlock found out, it’d get some rise out of him. Maybe an angry glance, a snide remark like the days before his fall. Something that John can confront Sherlock with. Anything.

How did Sherlock not know about this? How didn’t Mary? He admits with a pang in his heart their oblivion was the reason he was interested in the first place.

He’d surrounded himself with the two most inhumanly observant people on the planet, but they never really saw the parts of him he wanted them to see.

He wanted Mary to find out, to read the texts, or see a secret smile while he was reading one of them. He wanted her to feel hurt and betrayed like he was hurt by her sticking a bullet in Sherlock.

He wanted Sherlock to find out, to suspect, and grill him with questions about it. To see that John was miserable in his marriage and was sick of being guilt-tripped into not being with his lying, murdering wife.

He needed someone to notice.

He’s a selfish, pathetic man.

Molly sits down with Rosie, cautiously smiling at the two of them. She senses the weird mood and sends a questioning look towards Sherlock. She’s worried John has hurt him again.

Sherlock smiles and that clears the air. Molly wishes him a happy birthday and orders cake.

John realizes Sherlock’s eyes have been stuck on Rosie this whole time. They haven’t seen each other in months.

“Ro-ro, look who’s here!” John says, feigning cheer. “It’s Sherlock!”

Sherlock sees that as the permission that it is and beams at Rosie. “Hello, Watson. I’ve missed you.” He bends down, pulls his face close to hers and whispers “How’ve you been, my Nosy Rosie?”

Rosie looks at Sherlock with curious yet unrecognizing eyes. Her eyes trail over his scars and his nose, then she looks up to John.

She doesn’t remember him, John realizes in a panic.

He sees the realization dawn on Sherlock’s face, the smile on his mouth crumbling.

The cake arrives and Sherlock straightens in his chair.

“Happy Birthday!” the waiter chirps at Sherlock in a cheery voice.

Sherlock swallows and looks down at the cake.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. What kind of terrible person ends a story LIKE THAT? I apologize. My hope is that the fluffier parts of this story will leave you hopeful about this dou's future.
> 
> You'll notice this story stops at the end of The Lying Detective and doesn't continue into The Final Problem, and that's because (if you'll pardon my French) I fucking hate The Final Problem. Not going into that fuckfest in my first fic ever.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this, despite the sad, open-ended conclusion. There's a lot of sadness, hurt and betrayal in the Mary-John-Sherlock triangle, much more than the show could handle in my opinion. Canon reaches a level of heartache that very few people and relationships can bounce back from in real life.
> 
> In light of that, I was hoping to dive more into the layers of each of these characters and to explain, at least to myself, some of the things that didn't make sense in canon. I hope I did it well.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Edit: Surprise! This universe continues in the next story of this series - Detours. Please read on!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fight or Flight [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29343621) by [johnlockypodfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlockypodfics/pseuds/johnlockypodfics)




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